


a man on the sidewalk remembering your name

by sandyk



Series: not that kind of party [4]
Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:19:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandyk/pseuds/sandyk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deeks was home, on his dead man's couch, petting his ungrateful dog. (sequel to you country punk, post ep for 5x04 and 5x05.) warning: implied past domestic violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a man on the sidewalk remembering your name

**Author's Note:**

> no profit garnered, not mine. For the ncis bingo spot 'my heart will go on.' Wilco's Shouldn't be Ashamed is the song in the first paragraph and also the lyric in the title. A sequel to you country punk, but not necessary to have read that. Thanks to jf for beta.

In the shower, Marty has this one line from a song he can't remember in his head and he sings it over again. "If it's not like I told you then it's still your call." When Kensi is in the shower, and she thinks he's asleep and no one will hear, she sings all of My Heart Will Go On, even though she told him she doesn't even like that song. 

In the shower, as the song bounces against the walls and he tries out different accents, he thinks how he hates non-linear narrative. He suffered through Catch-22 in college and it was a slog. He likes the first things first, second things second, third things after that. Like a police report. 

He moved into his new apartment on a Saturday. It's the smallest apartment in the building. Marty thinks it was supposed to be part of a corner apartment maybe, but then they realized they could make a place out of it and get more money. He liked it from the first. It's modern white walls and sharp angles. He thought it would be interesting to decorate with antiques and have a table he didn't let Kensi put her filthy boots on. He doesn't have any of those, though.

He didn't tell Kensi that the former tenant had no heirs the cops could locate so Marty now had overdose guy's bed frame and couch. Kensi came over after all the hard moving and unpacking was done - mostly by the movers, honestly, Marty did a lot of supervising and making sure his guitar was still in tune. Kensi brought food from In N Out. They actually ate all of it before they had some darned athletic and impressive sex on the bed. He woke up in the middle of the night and no Monty and no Kensi in his bed. 

She was sitting on the top of the stairs that led to the loft area/bedroom. She said, "I really do find this a little creepy."

"I know you're not referring to our fantastic lovemaking. Or Monty, you traitor." He could see Monty draped over Kensi's lap. 

She grunted. He imagined she rolled her eyes. "Monty is not creepy at all. And the sex was great but it is a little creepy when you call it lovemaking."

"Nope. Not true. You're wrong. Also, come back to bed, or I'm taking your side."

"This is the best place to see the view, though," she said. She had switched to being serious, he could tell. 

"You can see the ocean," he said. 

She came back to bed and Monty jumped up right after her. Monty found a way to sit on both their feet which made them both laugh. Kensi fell asleep first. 

Sunday he took Monty out and worked all his muscle groups to fatigue. It would not do to get out of shape. He had to prove to Callen and everyone that he was the best Deeks he could be. He liked knowing he could throw a punch that would make a man fall down hard. 

Monday morning he had his MWF appointment at 6:30 am with his eccentric Harvard Medical School acupuncturist. He'd been going to her since his first oral surgery. He closed his eyes when she brought out the needles even if they were tiny. He lay on his back because he gets a lot of needles on his face. Face, shoulder, stomach, knees, feet. Dr Harvard filled the room with the smell of pineapple and cedar from essential oils. She picked chanting Chinese music for Monday morning. She said things to him like, "You are manifest. You are light." He felt so good, he fell asleep.

After that he drove for thirty minutes to get twenty blocks to his new psychiatrist. He wondered how Kensi had had the woman's number and he decided not to ever ask her. He decided it was probably an ex-boyfriend, not Jack, but someone else, since she'd been in Los Angeles. Maybe she was still in love with that guy. That Guy who was probably a Marine and was built like Sam. That guy looked great in dress uniform and Kensi probably melted every time he wore it, and That Guy was an asshole so he wore his dress uniform even when he didn't have to just to get Kensi all hot and bothered. Asshole That Guy. But That Guy had had PTSD or had experienced trauma so that Kensi had this number and Marty felt like an ass for hating on someone who'd been in a bad place much like Marty himself.

"Argument for seeing a shrink? Pretty much," he said. He'd just talking himself into anger and then guilt at his anger over an invented guy he had no reason to believe even existed. He whistled "if I only had a brain" as he went inside. 

There was no receptionist, his new shrink was the one who gave him the forms and waited for him to finish. 

She said, "I'm sure you've seen the psychiatrist associated with your unit. And I'm sure they said and meant that they cared about you, first. But before they met with you, they met with your supervisor and after they met with you, they did the same thing. I don't care about unit cohesion or how the LAPD or NCIS looks on paper and whether they have the wrong number of agents reporting mental health issues." She smiled grimly. She was a kind of grim person. He saw pictures on her wall of time served in the army, with police. She had very fancy degrees.

She ran him through a number of questions, many of which he recognized from the internet as screening questions for PTSD and depression. He was feeling good from acupuncture and humiliated from his own brain in the parking lot so he answered honestly. She nodded a lot and gave him a diagnosis. 

"I'm also a licensed massage therapist, so that's how I'll bill your insurance. I don't keep computer records of sessions. If someone asks if you're my patient, I will invoke patient confidentiality and tell them I would do the same if they asked me if Adolf Hitler was a patient." He liked the idea of a massage. He was cowed enough by his diagnosis to not say that out loud. 

She prescribed him four kinds of pills. They set up a MWF schedule, too.

He picked up his meds, listened to the pharmacist explain when to take what and what to eat when he took them. Marty said, "But operating heavy machinery is okay?" He made a joke in his head about how by heavy machinery he meant really big guns and maybe driving Sam's car. The pharmacist didn't smile.

"I am not a ray of sunshine or manifest light today," Marty said as he pulled into work.  
He made a joke about the acupuncture as he walked into the bullpen. Everyone else was already there. He smiled at Kensi. They'd decided not to hide but also not to tell. 

They had an ass kicking week at NCIS. There were a lot of explosions. He saw his massage-a-trist, his acupuncturist, waited for the pills to take effect. He worked out a lot, in the mornings when he didn't have appointments, in the early evening if cases didn't go over. It was linear, a then b then c. Stay in shape, be good, keep his job.

He and Kensi had moved from proving they were Olympic gold medal sex athletes, which they were, to what could only be called tender lovemaking. They stared in each other eyes. He had kissed her at least 300 times and he had no intention of ever stopping. 

"Since this is just between the two of us," Marty said to his massage-a-trist. "I can admit over the years I definitely did wonder, like I thought it was about 1% likely, because it would be totally out of character for Kensi to get implants, but she did have some wild college days, she says. Then you look at her breasts, or I look at her breasts which I did a lot and still do and I thought, maybe? No, not. But maybe? Now that I've had some very quality time up close, 100% real."

He said, "Am I talking too much? I probably am. I tend to do that."

"I know," she said. "It's okay."

"It's not great," he said. 

"It's a coping mechanism," she said.

"Like smoking or drinking?"

"People medicate themselves. Drinking is not so helpful and it's contraindicated with two of your meds, so don't do it. Don't take up smoking, either. But if you did smoke already, I would tell you this is a bad time to quit," she said. 

"I hate smoking," he said. "I've had to do it for undercover but it's just gross. Also, it freaks out my dog."

"Back to talking too much," she said. "Don't feel bad about it. You've experienced trauma and not the first of your life. But you have friends, you take good care of your dog, and you're in a romantic relationship that makes both of you happy. You know negative thinking like that is one of the symptoms of your illness."

"I've been doing it way before all of this," he said. 

She stared at him until the silence was uncomfortable. She did that all the time, he really hated that part of therapy. 

He sat in his car in the parking lot and thought he was going to die, he was definitely going to die, there was no way he would make it to the next breath and he hoped no one could see him, hyperventilating and dying like an idiot in his car. Then his panic attack was over. He was tense and looking over his shoulder for the rest of the day for it to happen again. It could not happen at work. 

Kensi said, "You okay?" the fifth time and he snapped at her. 

He panicked again when he woke up in the middle of the night. When he could breathe, he texted Kensi to apologize. She responded immediately. He called her. "You could come over?"

"I strike you as that desperate." She sounded like she was teasing. 

"I think I'm the desperate one," he said. "Desperate for forgiveness, desperate for your breasts, you perfect butt. Are you coming over yet?"

"No," she said laughing. 

"Your funny jokes?"

"Fine," she said. "I'm in the car."

They didn't even have sex when she got there. They both fell asleep pretty quickly. 

The next morning she called him her guy. 

The morning after that, he stared at his massage-a-trist and wondered why she never asked about his childhood. She didn't even ask about the torture. It was all feelings and how did you react, how does that sound to you, what do when, what do you want, what what what. 

"I almost had a bonding moment with my coworker yesterday. Not really, because it was pretty one-sided, my side. But I think he felt it. Wanna know what we bonded over?" 

She said, "I know you want to talk about it."

"You're making me feel like an ass, so there's that." He shrugged. "I guess I wondered if you were ever going to ask my childhood. Unless you already figured it out with your shrink skills." 

"My shrink skills don't work like that. Tell me what you want me to know about your childhood." 

He did. 

That evening after work, he went grocery shopping. Whole Foods was crowded and loud and smelled like infected fish. He stared down the aisle at sauces, pasta and condiments. He felt crushed. He felt stupid. It was like a scene from Hurt Locker, a movie he had not seen at all, but he'd heard about the basics. He couldn't take it, even if it was a tired cliche. He walked out on unsteady feet. 

"Is it a cliche if it's only one movie?" Monty didn't answer. "Have you seen the movie? Did you go without your best pal?" He was home, on his dead man's couch, petting his ungrateful dog. 

He was also starving. He could order in, he could arrange a delivery. He could do a lot of things. He didn't do any of them. He stared at the tv. 

He texted Kensi. He sent her his grocery list and asked her to bring it over. She didn't even protest. "I bet Kensi has seen the Hurt Locker. She's probably seen it and cried. That's mean of me to think."

He realized he was watching a cleaned up version of Sex and The City season 2 on the Esquire channel. "Esquire? What are you thinking?" He flipped around until he found the Golden Girls. "All riiiiiiight," he said to Monty. "Don't want the love of my life coming over and I'm watching a version of Sex and the City where they can't say blowjob." Monty barked.

"Don't you dare tell her I called her the love of my life. She is, though. But don't you tell her. I want you to tell her even less than I want you to tell her I thought maybe she had implants. I didn't really think she had implants."

Kensi didn't even knock, she just used the keys he had given her to open the door and then hauled in three bags. She picked up an open jar and sat down next to him on the couch.

"Is that my almond butter?" He got up and took the bags into the kitchen. He didn't remember requesting so much candy and cake. 

"It's not, I bought my own. I mean, it's maple almond butter. It sounded really good and then I opened it in the car and it exceeded expectations. This is basically the perfect food," Kensi said. "I'm pretty pissed you never told me."

He finished unpacking his groceries, put a frozen dinner in the microwave and went back to sitting on the couch on the side of Kensi not occupied by Monty. "Look," he said. "Anything Monty tells you is a lie, by the way."

"One of those bags was for me, you know," she said. She not only had the butter, she was dipping cookies in it. 

"Are you actually dipping gingerbread cookies into the maple almond butter? Is that your dinner?"

She smiled. "Perfect food. Perfect food." 

"Have you eaten anything today that did not contain up to five tablespoons of sugar?"

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Despite all the carnal knowledge and deep soul knowledge they had of each other, Kensi still took forever to relax and hardcore snuggle on the couch. He said to her, "Just rifle through my wallet in the morning, take what I owe you."

"A million dollars," she said.

"Well, if we're calculating worth to each other, you should subtract what I mean to you."

"999,999 dollars," she said. She sat up and kissed his cheek. "Kidding."

"I could tell, it was a horrible joke." 

He hid his pills from her. They were in a recessed cubby in the wall with a silly tiny door by the bed. He assumed the dead guy had put his pills there, too. That wasn't why he wouldn't let Kensi see them. 

She slept on her side and he slept on his side and they were facing each other. She had this perfect body pressed against him in places. Even in his sleep he reached for her ass. He woke up gripping her sweet butt. He squeezed and heard her giggle. 

He timed himself on a run at one of his gyms. He could see security cameras in the corner. He wondered if Hetty had hacked into that one recently. He wondered if she'd planted ones in his new apartment yet. If she was wiring his massage-a-trist's office.He told himself it was paranoia. Paranoia was a symptom. He ran faster. 

His acupuncturist lit a candle for him that smelled like the beach at dusk. She said, "You know you are loved and wanted" like she meant it. If he didn't have needles all over him like Hellraiser, she would have followed up with a hug. He had to wait until after she left to cry because he was sad and a loser and his stupid pills made him overly emotional. 

He got the call to come in early for a thing that ended up with him on a train and risking his life and getting a delicious bran muffin from Sam while he was in therapy. She nodded and told him to go. It wasn't because he was obviously making great strides and could stop whenever but he liked to pretend. That night he went to a motorcycle shop. 

The next night, which was last night, he came home angry. By the time he got home he was incredibly angry. Kensi followed him in the door of his apartment saying, "I'm sure she will reimburse you for the motorcycle." 

"Will she? You're sure," he said. He just stared at her, and her stupid sad face. She wasn't even scared. He hated her perfect little family and Dads that were worth mourning and cuddly Moms she didn't fight with. Her crappy pretty world where she didn't get afraid when people were angry. It must be nice for her, he thought. He wanted for a moment to make her scared so she would understand. 

His hand had been formed into a fist long enough his fingers ached. He said, "By the way, this anger? Actually a symptom. A real symptom and everything."

"I know," she said. She was still not even a little bit scared. She was a neverending font of compassion and love and forgiveness like the nurse he never ever wanted. 

"Of course you do. You have the whole entry in the DSM memorized and you're keeping track of everything I do so you're ready to take care of me when I really fall apart, right? Right?" 

She still wasn't scared, she was just pissed. "You don't have to be mean."

He said, "I don't have to do shit. I do not have to be your sad boyfriend and partner, either. Maybe you're taking care of the wrong person, anyway. How are you sleeping lately? Have you looked at your symptoms?"

He watched her face fall apart and she didn't even try to mask it. She was clumsy sitting down on the couch, covering her face with her hands. 

He went upstairs and got his pills, took two, and then sat down next to her. He put the four bottles in her lap. She sniffled. He said, "Sorry. Really."

She sniffled again. "I know. Me, too." She held the pill bottles like the orange plastic was searing her hands. "I don't need this."

"Okay," he said. He took them from her and put them on table by the couch. Monty glanced at the two of them and went outside through his alarmed doggy door. 

She said, "Does Monty realize that bed on the balcony is basically a kitty li--"

"Don't even say it, he can hear you. He does not know that the vegetable bed in a box out there is like something possibly a pet possibly named Garfield might use, and let's not let him know. Cause this way he feels comfy staying home while I work and I have an excellently fertilized soon to be bamboo glade." He leaned back and put his arm around her. She relaxed immediately. 

"Bamboo glade?" She sniffled all over his hoodie. 

"I planted bamboo. I hope to have a forest. I like the idea of a forest."

Monty came back in and they watched tv until they stumbled up the stairs and fell asleep. 

She wakes up and gets out of bed, he pretends to be asleep. She sings in the shower. He resists looking as she sits down on the bed and towel dries her hair. He figures she deserves a few moments of peace. 

He sings in the shower, too. When he gets out, she is dressed and watching morning TV. He says, "You look cute. Are you going to wear that to work? Cause it's actually my shirt."

She laughs and takes it off. "That was unintentional." 

"I like this outfit," he says, hands around her skinny waist, looking at her lavender bra. 

"Hard to not be noticed like this," she says. She's already up in the bedroom grabbing her own shirt. 

She comes down and kisses him. At least the 500th time.


End file.
